Books, Cocoa, and Bloody Feathers
by LadyWallace
Summary: Crowley gets himself into a spot a trouble. Luckily, he stumbles across the right bookstore. Friendship, hurt/comfort- no slash


**My first foray into Good Omens ****fan fiction! I have loved the book for quite a while and I did really enjoy the mini-series though I still think the book is better. But Binging it all last weekend I decided I had to write a one shot because I just love Aziraphale and Crowley's friendship ^_^ **

**(Also, if anyone has any gen fic recs for this fandom or wants to write any, I would be really happy, they seem few and far between)**

**Disclaimer: Not mine!**

Books, Cocoa, and Bloody Feathers

A Good Omens Fanfic

It was a gloomy day in London, the kind that was perfect for hot drinks and sitting down with a good book, which is exactly what Aziraphale was doing. It was quiet in the bookstore, no one else seemed to want to venture out even for a good book to read, and really, the thought of one of his precious books getting soggy on the way back to someone's flat made Aziraphale shudder. Not that he sold many books anyway, the act of parting with any of them was a particular kind of regret that he couldn't really ever get over.

But today, he was enjoying a thick tome and a lovely cup of hot cocoa—which he made sure to keep at _just_ the right temperature. A frivolous miracle, yes, but one that was quite conducive to happiness and morale.

So he was rather annoyed when he heard the bell on the door ring, indicating a customer. He wanted to ignore it, thinking it was probably just someone coming in out of the rain to browse and not buy anything—which, as was already established, was perfectly fine with Aziraphale. Yes, he did have bills to pay, an annoying side effect of playing human, and it was probably best if he did his job as shop owner once in a while, but he had yet to chance standing up or even putting his book down.

"Hello?"

The voice from the front of the store sealed his fate seconds later, however, and Aziraphale sighed, putting his book aside with a careful bookmark, and reluctantly rose from his favorite reading chair.

"Yes, coming," he called irritably as he stepped out of the back room to see to his unwanted guest.

He pulled up short as he caught sight of a familiar figure, though. The figure was leaning nonchalantly against one of the bookcases just inside the door, black suit looking a little more rumpled than usual, sunglasses in place if not a little askew, hair a bit wet. Aziraphale folded his arms over his chest, wary. There was only one reason Crowley ever showed up and he didn't particularly want to deal with their 'arrangement' today. He'd rather stay here with his books, and keep himself dry, than run out and _not_ perform a miracle for the demon.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

Crowley pouted a little. "Is that any way to treat an old friend, Aziraphale?"

The angel pursed his lips, refusing to remind the demon, again, that they were not exactly _friends_ so much as…well, whatever you called two supernatural beings from opposite sides of things who didn't exactly _not_ get along with each other.

"Hope you don't mind me popping in," the demon continued, making no effort to move from his spot. "I, er, fell into a spot a trouble and I wasn't sure where else to go."

Aziraphale frowned. "Trouble? I hope you're not bringing it here! I have no use for trouble, especially around my books!"

The demon snorted. "Don't worry, angel, I lost them a long time ago. Just need a place to lay low for a while." He shifted then and there was a tightening of his jaw and shoulders as he leaned a little more nonchalantly against the bookcase.

It was then Aziraphale realized that Crowley wasn't so much leaning nonchalantly as propping himself up. This became even more clear as the demon reached out a hand to steady himself on an overfull shelf, obviously trying to reinstate his typical apathetic bearing, but placed his hand on a book instead, which teetered and sent him off balance. A hiss escaped him as he overcorrected and he practically slumped against the shelf now; indeed, actually clinging to it to stay upright.

Aziraphale took a cautious step forward. "You—are you injured, Crowley?"

"Ah, nothing to worry about," the demon scoffed, trying to shrug it off, except he couldn't shrug without a cringe of pain decorating his face.

"Why, you _are_ hurt!" Aziraphale exclaimed and crossed the rest of the way to the demon, gripping his arm to steady him. Crowley let out a small sound of protest, but Aziraphale was more worried about getting him somewhere comfortable. "Don't you worry, we'll set you to rights soon enough. Come into the back and sit down." He reached over to flip his store sign to 'Closed'. It wasn't like anyone was going to stop by anyway and it seemed he had more important things to worry about now.

He helped the demon into the back with Crowley finally giving in and leaning more heavily on him as if not bothering to pretend he wasn't quite at his best. Aziraphale had rarely seen the demon actually hurt before, so he knew it must be no little thing.

Once in the back of the bookshop, he maneuvered Crowley around the stacks of books that always tended to accumulate, waiting for shelf space that would never appear. When they finally made it to the old, tattered loveseat at the back of the room, Aziraphale removed a pile of books that had found their home there and then lowered the demon down as carefully as possible.

Crowley let out a soft grunt as he settled, leaning against the arm of it, looking very weary.

"Now, what happened to you?" Aziraphale asked, pulling the chair from his desk over and sitting down, leaning forward to study the demon closer.

"Ah, well, the lads got a little upset with me," Crowley said with a cringe, trying to find a comfortable position. "It's not so bad, just need a little time to rest—gah!"

He had shifted to one side but it seemed to cause him pain. Aziraphale was on his feet, reaching toward the demon, but wary of touching him, not knowing where his injuries lay.

"Come now, let me see," he said.

"Leave me alone, angel," Crowley sighed wearily, slumping against the couch.

Aziraphale folded his arms over his chest. "You come into my shop looking for shelter, and expect me to leave you hurt without doing anything? I'm an angel, dear, helping people—and, er, I suppose demons too—is sort of what I do. And if you're injured there's no need to suffer in silence."

Crowley huffed and took his sunglasses off, revealing yellow eyes with dark circles under them as he muttered, "Not so bad, I'm telling you…"

"Don't be stubborn," Aziraphale insisted. "Crowley."

The demon rolled his eyes and huffed again but shifted and, with a shudder and a cringe, materialized his wings. Aziraphale couldn't help the gasp as he saw the state of them. Bloody, tattered feathers quivered in Crowley's exertion from holding them out before he folded them against his back, trying to shift so he could settle himself and his wings onto the small couch.

"Crowley, these look terrible!" Aziraphale exclaimed. "Whatever happened?"

Crowley ran a hand through his hair. "Did something—not important what—Haster got angry, decided to teach me a lesson by setting a hellhound on me. I almost got away, but once it caught me, it wasn't too fond of the idea of letting go."

Aziraphale's own wings shuddered at the sight of Crowley's. There were several gaps in the black feathers, revealing some bloody claw and teeth marks. They looked positively awful.

"Well, this won't so," Aziraphale murmured to himself as he bustled around helplessly for a moment, before leaving for the small washroom in the very back of the shop where he retrieved a bowl of water and some washrags. He returned to find Crowley poking at one of his wings, before plucking a broken feather out, muffling a yelp from between clenched teeth. Aziraphale hurried over, settling the bowl and cloths down on a coffee table.

"Don't do that!" he chided.

"What, they've got to come out, haven't they? No use having broken feathers. Just hurt more when new ones come in. Unless you can miracle all of this away." He glanced up with a mocking expression.

Aziraphale pursed his lips. "Unfortunately, no, but I do know a little something about first aid. I spent some time shadowing Florence Nightingale!"

"Oh lovely, I'm saved," Crowley muttered, letting the bloody feather float from his fingers to land on the open pages of one of Aziraphale's books. The angel was not very happy with that at all, but he fought against his wish to scold the demon. Crowley was, after all, injured, and Aziraphale decided that meant he should be kind to him.

"Oh, just stay still and let me do it, then," Aziraphale said firmly and took his seat in the chair once again, sliding it closer and leaning forward.

Crowley sighed but shifted, angling so the angel could reach one of his wings. Aziraphale took the feathered appendage across his knees and wet a cloth, starting to dab at the bloody spots as gently as possible. The wounds were cruel and copious if not particularly grievous, and every small sound of pain Crowley made as he worked went straight to Aziraphale's heart. He hated to see the demon—okay, his _friend_—suffer so.

"Ow, dammit, angel, your bedside manner is not exactly what I would expect from a haloed do-gooder," Crowley grumbled.

"Well, I'm doing the best I can," Aziraphale returned defensively before setting the now very bloodstained cloth aside and taking a deep breath. "That's all I can do for the wounds, I assume they should heal up before too long, but, you're right, the broken feathers will have to go."

Crowley shifted slightly, trying to sit up straighter. "Oh, I wouldn't worry. You don't have to bother yourself with that. I'll do it myself later."

"You can't even reach all of them," Aziraphale protested.

"You want to torture me, is that it?"

"Well, if you're going to be stubborn about it…"

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Fine, angel. I suppose I shouldn't deprive you your one chance to do so." He relinquished his wings back to the care of the angel, if not a bit more reluctantly, and Aziraphale did the foul deed as quickly as possible.

Crowley gritted his teeth in preparation, and then he yelped, as the first broken feather was removed by the angel's hand. Aziraphale worked stoically and efficiently, even after the yelps got louder, peppered with curses, and finally turned to howls the demon didn't bother muffling anymore because pain only ever seems to get worse the longer it goes. Aziraphale tried to console himself by thinking that he was sure the demon deserved this for _something_ he had done in the past, but at the moment, he, of course, couldn't think of anything so grievous, which made the trial all that much more difficult for both of them, especially when he looked down at Crowley who had taken to burying his face in the crook of one arm, grasping desperately at the couch cushions like some sort of lifeline.

Finally, there was a pile of bloody, broken feathers, and stained rags sitting on Aziraphale's coffee table and Crowley was slumped, curled on one side on the small couch, eyes only half open, a rather undemonic paleness overcoming his features.

"There now, we're all finished," Aziraphale told him gently, patting his wrist as he stood up. "You just lie there and rest while I clean up and put the kettle on."

Aziraphale quickly removed the bowl and rags, dumping them in the washroom and then filled his small electronic kettle with water, and while it heated, he measured out cocoa mix into two cups. Crowley looked like he could use a cup after what he had been through.

When he got back to the demon, Crowley was still curled on the couch, his wings folded over top of him. They still looked bad, a little sparse now too, but Aziraphale knew they would heal before long.

"Here, dear, I brought you a nice cup of hot cocoa. It's the perfect temperature, so drink it up. It will help."

Crowley looked at it a bit skeptically, but took the cup and sipped at it.

Aziraphale took a seat in his reading chair and they were silent for a few minutes, before he reached to a stack of books resting beside his seat and plucked one from the top.

"Shall I read to you?"

"Do what you like," Crowley replied.

Aziraphale took that as a cue to continue and opened the book, beginning to read.

The demon closed his eyes, but listened as the angel read and Aziraphale's voice lulled him into a sleep he desperately needed even though demons didn't usually need to sleep. When Aziraphale finally looked up from his book to take a breath and a drink of cocoa, he saw the demon sprawled across the small couch, arms around a throw pillow, feet dangling off the other end and wings, sprawled out on either side of him.

Aziraphale got up and carefully pulled an old crocheted throw from the back of the couch and gently spread it over Crowley. The demon shifted slightly and made a small sound of pain in his sleep as his wings moved with him, but he settled down and began snoring softly.

However long he needed to recover, Aziraphale would let him stay there, and he would sit and watch over him for the duration, he decided.

After all, what were friends for?


End file.
